The Kubo Family’s Shibazuke Pickles
Nearly every time I’m in Kyoto, I make my way to the farming community of Ohara for a day, at least a morning, though sometimes I stay the night.
Ohara lies in a broad valley beneath the sacred slopes of Mount Hiei. From downtown Kyoto, it’s less than an hour by bus, the route climbing winding roads through wooded foothills. With each turn, the city recedes, replaced by a serene, almost timeless landscape. For me, living in Tokyo, it’s a place to experience the seasons in their fullness: a ring of snow-dusted mountains in winter, wild cherry trees in bloom in spring, the rhythmic chorus of cicadas carried on cooling summer breezes, and a blaze of color in autumn.
I also come to meet and learn from a growing community of artisans, textile dyers and weavers, potters, and bamboo craftsmen, who draw both their materials and their sensibilities from the valley’s natural rhythms and its slower, more traditional way of life.
But if I’m being honest, I really come for the pickles.
Ohara’s fields, whose earthy scent greets me on arrival, yield kyo-yasai, Kyoto’s heirloom vegetables celebrated for their vivid colors, unusual forms, and deeply expressive flavors. Ohara is not only a place where vegetables are grown; it’s a place where they are transformed and preserved. Its cool climate and pure mountain air create ideal conditions for natural fermentation. Chief among its specialties is shibazuke, one of the three crown jewels of Kyoto’s tsukemono, said to have originated here some 800 years ago. My visits have become a kind of pilgrimage to Shibakyu, a small shop along the path to Sanzen-in, where the Kubo family continues to make shibazuke according to an original, time-honored method, with quality ingredients and the skill of generations.
Ohara in winter light, ringed by snow-dusted mountains, quiet, enclosed, timeless.
Shibazuke are made from eggplant, about half as much myoga, a wild woodland ginger, and layered with salt and red shiso. During fermentation, the eggplant’s deep purple hue permeates the flesh, drawing out a lively, refreshing sourness while transforming the texture into a gentle chew. They are as beautiful to look at as they are delicious to eat, with the brightness of myoga and the aromatic depth of red shiso lingering in each bite. They are also a staple in my own kitchen, something I keep on hand for myself and to share with guests.
Those made at Shibakyu are particularly gratifying. Their color is deep, saturated, and glossy, and their sourness arrives as an initial, almost startling brightness before giving way to the layered, herbaceous aromatics of myoga and red shiso. Their texture, more substantial than that of most vegetable pickles, helps explain why shibazuke have long served as a stand-in for meat within the austere vegetarian cuisine of Buddhist temple cooking.
Shibakyu’s shibazuke, vivid in its deep purple hue.
I’m drawn to Shibakyu’s shibazuke for another reason as well: they affirm my sense that their creation marked a turning point in Japan’s pickling tradition, when preservation gave way to something closer to edible art. The method itself is among the oldest and most rustic: vegetables simply salted, pressed under stones, and left to time. Yet the result reflects a remarkable level of culinary refinement and aesthetic sensitivity.
Legend has it that shibazuke were not developed merely for preservation, but as an offering. In the 12th century, Empress Kenreimon-in who fled to the Imperial convent of Jakko-in, on the far side of the valley, after the devastating loss of her family at the Battle of Dan-no-ura. Local villagers, seeking to comfort her, created these pickles in her honor. Dyed the purple of nobility, their vivid color and complex balance of sourness and freshness are said to reflect both emotional depth and a refined sensibility.
Whether or not the story is true, I find something persuasive in it. Why else would something so humble, eggplant, herbs, salt, and time, be transformed into something so jewel-like? Why offer an empress a gem when you could instead create one she could taste?
At their small farm and shop along the pilgrim’s path to Sanzen-in, the Kubo family has been making shibazuke for nearly a century. Their brand, Shibakyu, meaning “old-style shibazuke,” is less a name than a declaration of intent.
Shibakyu, the Kubo family’s shop, along the path to Sanzen-in in Ohara.
The work today is led by Masaru Kubo, the family’s octogenarian patriarch. His grandmother began the business as a street vendor, selling her homemade pickles from a pushcart. When Masaru took it over at 29, in the early 1970s, Japan’s food culture was rapidly industrializing. For him, continuing the family craft was not simply a matter of inheritance, but of conviction, an effort, as he puts it, to “preserve tradition and make good food.” He sought not only to protect the integrity of shibazuke, but also to offer something he believed was genuinely healthful in an age of increasing processing.
That commitment begins in the fields. The eggplant Masaru uses is kyo-yamashina-nasu, a Kyoto heirloom variety with deep purple skin and a firm, resilient flesh, qualities that allow it to absorb color and flavor while retaining structure. Achieving that balance is no small feat; eggplant, if mishandled, readily turns soft. The satisfying chew of Shibakyu’s shibazuke is one of its signatures.
Even more central is the red shiso. Much of Masaru’s attention is devoted to its cultivation, as it provides not only the pickles’ vivid purple hue but also their defining aroma and much of their character. Ohara is known for producing one of the purest strains in Japan, prized for both color and flavor. Each year, seeds are started in early spring, transplanted in May to the small farm behind the shop, and harvested at their peak in mid-July, just as Kyoto enters the height of summer and the Gion Festival unfolds in the city below.
Masaru Kubo holding his homegrown red shiso.
Only then does the pickling begin. Sliced eggplant, whole myoga buds, red shiso leaves, and salt are layered into large tubs and weighted with stones. The salt itself comes from Ako, a historic salt-making region along the Seto Inland Sea, valued for its mineral richness and its ability to draw out both color and flavor while supporting a clean fermentation. By mid-August, as the season turns, the year’s batches are complete. Left to rest, they undergo a slow lactic fermentation, shaped not only by time but by the ambient life of Ohara, the microbes carried in its air, its soil, and its water.
Rows of shibazuke fermenting under stone weights.
Each year, Masaru produces only a few hundred tubs, working alongside his son and a small team. He has resisted opportunities to expand, knowing that scale would require compromises, pasteurization, additives, or accelerated methods, that would alter both flavor and character. Instead, he continues to work as his family always has, so that the shibazuke remain, in his words, “fresh.”
Once back home in Tokyo, I enjoy the shibazuke I’ve brought with me in a variety of ways: as a simple side dish, atop tofu, chopped into salads, tossed with noodles, or melted into butter and poured over fish. Each use adds a touch of dazzle, bringing brightness and depth. Each bite becomes something briefly, a gratefully received taste of place and history.
Shibakyu 志ば久
58 Ohara, Shorin-in, Sakyo-ku, Kyoto City, Kyoto Prefecture 601-1241
The shop is open daily from 8:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. In addition to their signature shibazuke, available both in whole slices and finely chopped, Shibakyu offers a variety of seasonal pickles made from fresh Ohara vegetables. These include Kyoto’s other iconic pickles, suguki and senmaizuke, as well as a refreshing green variation of shibazuke made with cucumber and green shiso.
Shibakyu’s shibazuke can also be found at Kyoto Station and in the food halls of Mitsukoshi department stores nationwide, as well as in select department stores in Kyoto, Tokyo, and Osaka.